Edwold was disappointed that Alan remembered he wanted the felons’ heads, which meant that he couldn’t leave the bodies hanging on the tree as a salutary lesson.
With the journey slowed by the cart it was nearly dark when they arrived back at Alan’s Hall in Thorrington. Alan had Anne carried out to the cart. As she looked at the pile of heads in the back of the cart a savage gleam came to her eyes. “How many?”
“Fourteen, including the seven we killed when we rescued you. We left another three dead in the forest and two will go to the sheriff for his decision,” replied Alan.
“And that is all of them?” she insisted.
“Every last motherless son,” said Alan with conviction.
Anne stood on tip-toe to kiss Alan’s stubbled cheek and said, “That is the best present anybody has ever given me.”
‘God save me from vengeful women’ thought Alan before replying, considering Anne’s apparent affinity with Boadicea. “The Lord said, ‘Justice is mine’. But I believe that we need to give him a hand whenever we can,” he said. “What do you want to do with them?”
“Put them on stakes at the northern entrance to the forest. Perhaps that will deter others,” instructed Anne.
Back in the Hall Alan had a chair and foot-stool set up for Anne by the fire and a substantial meal prepared. It had been a long day.
“I’ll be going to Colchester tomorrow and will pass through Wivenhoe. Is there anything that you want bringing back?” asked Alan. Anne rattled off a short list of clothes and the like. “You’ve been hereabouts for several years,” continued Alan.” Do you know anybody who may be able to act as a scribe for me? I have the Hundred court once a month and I can’t conduct the court and take notes at the same time. Preferably somebody with some knowledge of West Saxon law, but at least able to read English. I inherited copies of the Dooms setting out the local laws when I took over my fief, but I can barely read English.”
Anne pondered for a few moments and then said, “There’s a man who teaches in the priory school at Colchester. Osmund is his name. He’s young, about twenty,” Anne smiled as both she and Alan were younger than that. “His father was a priest, so he learned his letters while young. He wasn’t accepted for the priesthood himself because he asks too many difficult questions.”
Alan nodded his thanks and then asked. “Given that you can read, would you like me to borrow some books from the priory library?”
“You can do that?” queried Anne.
“As long as it’s nothing too fancy. No illuminations or anything like that. I’m sure I can talk my way around the librarian. English? Latin? Greek?”
“No Greek,” replied Anne. “My scholarship didn’t stretch that far. Yes, certainly anything to read would help pass the time, as does being allowed to come out of isolation in the bedchamber and spend time in the Hall.”
“Your condition is improving and you’re regaining your strength. You lost a lot of blood. If you wait just a moment, I have something that might interest you,” said Alan, carefully clearing the table near Anne and wiping it clean, before disappearing into the Solar. He was back in a couple of minutes carrying a large and very thick leather-bound book, which he placed on the table. “This is only on loan to pass the time,” he said as Anne opened the cover.
“A Bible!” she exclaimed. “A real Latin Bible! Not even our parish church has one!” She turned the pages carefully. “It’s beautiful!”
“Thank you,” replied Alan. “That’s actually half of the Bible, the other half is still in the Solar. I hope you can read it. My writing improved as I went along.”
“You wrote it yourself?” said Anne in a tone of disbelief.
“I copied it. It was my writing exercise for four hours a day over four years. I finished it just before I left the monastery at Rouen. It’s plain and un-illuminated, but a fair copy nonetheless. I read sections myself most evenings, or when I am troubled. I had it brought over from Normandy with some of my other things after I took up residence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve been up since three this morning and walked and ridden many miles. I think that it’s time I retired for the night. When you’re ready, call Kendrick for assistance- don’t try to get back to the bedchamber by yourself. And take the Bible with you.”
As she idly turned the pages Anne considered her host. A warrior and leader of men. Undoubtedly brave, yet literate, thoughtful, careful of his obligations and lacking in arrogance. His treatment of even his slaves showed care and common courtesy. Judging by the brief look that she had so far had at the books of account, he was a wealthy man who owned or controlled much of Tendring Hundred. And he was a good-looking young man. All in all, the man was a most unusual combination.
Alan and his small party of four Saxon men-at-arms set out on horseback for Colchester early next morning, with two additional horses, being the price that Alan had agreed with the armourer for his new hauberk. They collected the outlaws Linn and Pearce, who rode the spare horses- in Linn’s case poorly as he had never been trained to ride.
As they rode through the southern gate of the old stone Roman wall that surrounded the town, kept in reasonable condition because the town was on the River Colne and over the years had been subject to frequent attack from raiders from the Eastern Seas, the priory bell was tolling for Nones at mid-afternoon. They stopped briefly at an inn, ‘The Three Hounds’, which was nearly in the middle of the town. Alan to dropped off his overnight bag and booked a room- his men would sleep by the fire in the Commons- and arranged for the horses to be stabled before he took the short walk to the newly-built castle to see the sheriff. They soon found that Robert fitzWymarc was away and not expected back for a week, but his deputy Roger saw them promptly enough and heard Pearce’s story with a cynicism similar to that of Alan himself.
“What do you think, Sir Alan?” asked the Deputy-Sheriff.
“I don’t know,” replied Alan thoughtfully, sipping at a cup of wine with which he had been provided. “The story doesn’t get any more convincing the second time you hear it. Still, there may be truth in it and it may be worth paying attention to what he says. I think it’s just a story to save his life- but it’s a very good story. Whether it’s good enough for him to avoid getting his neck stretched, I’ll leave to Sir Robert. The boy I’d just let go, but a week in the cells awaiting the sheriff’s pleasure won’t do him any harm. I’d appreciate it if you let me know what happens eventually.” With an abrupt change of topic Alan continued, “Has the warrant arrived as to when the campaign to occupy the north is intended to start, when we muster and where?”
“Yes indeed. Word was received several days ago. We muster a week after the Feast of the Annunciation, on the 2nd of April at Alan of Brittany’s castle in Cambridge. That’s in three weeks time. You’ll be aware that King William intends to return to Normandy shortly? No? Well, he’ll be leaving any day and his half-brother Bishop Odo of Bayeux and his cousin William fitzOsbern will be left in charge here in England.
“FitzOsbern will be leading the expedition north. Odo is busy in Kent with various disturbances down there. The English and their new Norman neighbours are having some differences that they’re sorting out with the sword. I think that it’s probably some upstart Normans stepping on sensitive English toes.” Alan remembered that fitzWymarc was a part-Breton, and presumably some of his men such as Roger had come to England at the request of Edward the Confessor a dozen or more years before. They probably viewed themselves almost as locals. Roger continued, “If needed, there’ll be a second muster six weeks later at Nottingham to replace those who have completed their forty days service. You have your men recruited?” Alan nodded. “Good. Sir Robert will be marching with our first contingent on the 30th March, six days after The Annunciation Day of the Lord, if you would care to join us on the journey?” Alan agreed readily and then took his leave as it was getting late.
After a walk to the priory in the gathering darkness Alan knocked on the wooden door in the sto
ne wall surrounding the priory buildings. He was permitted entry, received directions to the school and was told that Osmund was currently teaching a class. In fact two classes were in progress when Alan walked into the cold and dimly-lit teaching-hall. A group of youngsters were being taught letters by an elderly monk, each student peering closely at the page in front of them as they worked. A younger man was teaching a small group of youths the principals of rhetoric. Just then the bell for Vespers began to toll, ending work for the day. The students quickly packed up their school-things before attending the service.
As he strode over to intercept the younger teacher Alan noted that he was thin, of middling height with lank dark hair almost to his shoulders and had a face dominated by a large nose. His tunic and breeches had once been of reasonable quality but were now thread-bare, but he proudly wore the traditional seax long-knife of the freeman at his belt.
“Excuse me!” called Alan in Latin. “Are you Osmund the scribe?”
“I suppose that is as good a description as any- that or lareow, or teacher. Yes, I’m Osmund,” came the reply in the same language, in a surprisingly deep and firm voice. Osmund studied the tall, well dressed but not ostentatious noble striding towards him, sword and scabbard swinging slightly from his baldric as he hurried. “What service may I be to my lord?”
“I’m Alan of Thorrington and I have need of an honest and skilled scribe. Lady Anne of Wivenhoe has recommended you to me as being pr?ttig and anfeald, a man both astute and honest. May we talk?”
Osmund hesitated as Alan reached him and stood a pace away. “Certainly, my lord. Perhaps if we off to the refectory where they are about to serve the evening meal we can sit and talk at our leisure.”
With a flash of insight Alan realised that the free meal that Osmund received as part of his teaching stipend was probably all that was keeping body and soul together. Having extensive experience himself with the poor fare and small meals provided at a priory he reached forward and clapped Osmund on the shoulder and exclaimed, “We can do better than that. I’m staying at ‘The Three Hounds’ and they have a good board. Come and eat with me.”
They walked through the darkened streets of the town, Osmund with the confidence of a man with an empty purse and the knowledge he had nothing worth stealing, Alan with the watchfulness that a warrior shows in any circumstances, automatically examining each dark alley as they passed.
‘The Three Hounds’ was a high-class inn, catering for merchants, guildsmen and the well-to-do. The Commons was warm and dimly lit by rush torches attached to the walls and posts by sconces. The room was slightly smoky, with the smoke from the fire in the central hearth drifting through the air before slowly finding its way out of the small hole left in the roof. There was a quiet buzz of conversation as the dozen or so customers conversed in quiet tones over the small tables scattered around the room. Alan’s escort of four warriors looked quite out of place, playing dice together in a corner. Alan chose an unoccupied table a little distance from the fire and relaxed as he sat down, using one foot to drag a spare stool opposite him and then putting both booted feet up as he leaned back. Osmund sat carefully upright on his own chair. The inn-keeper, a big fat middle-aged man with a bald head, hurried across, wiping his hands clean on his apron as he did so.
“What can I get you, Masters?” he asked in a gravelly tone.
“Two quart pitchers of your best ale. What food do you have tonight?” demanded Alan.
“Pottage, of course, flavoured with nice fat bacon. We also have a good leek soup. Leverpostej- Danish pork-liver paste on dark rye bread with pickled beet, onions and cucumber. Goat stew with onions and herbs. Very nice! Pork rissoles with sage, shallots and parsley. Buttered vegetables and roast gourd. The oven is still lit, so we can whip up a nice steak and kidney pie or chicken pie. For dessert an apple pie, fresh fruit or cheeses. We have some fine Gorgonzola, Camembert, Emmenthal and an unusual very hard but piquant cheese that we get from a local cheese-maker- he ages it for several years,” replied the inn-keeper.
Alan paused for a moment. “Leek soup, Leverpostej with wortes and with a dash of dark vinegar. Then the goat stew with gourd. While we’re eating those, cook a steak and kidney pie for two, which we’ll have with the buttered vegetables. Apple pie and a cheese platter. Plenty of fresh bread. Keep the ale coming.”
After a nod the inn-keeper walked off towards the kitchen, shouting to the serving-wench behind the counter to bring the ale. The good-looking blonde-haired lass turned to the firkin behind her and adroitly drew two quart pitchers before walking with swaying hips across the tavern to the table and placing the pitchers before the two diners.
“Much better than eating at the refectory, don’t you think?’ asked Alan as he saw Osmund carefully studying the well-filled low-cut front of the serving-wench’s dress. Osmund grunted a reply.
Soup and bread arrived promptly and for the next hour the two men worked their way through the various courses as they arrived. As they ate Alan sounded Osmund out, firstly as to his abilities as a clerk. Osmund said that he was skilled in scribing in Latin and English and was reasonably capable in Norman French. He expressed a capability to read, but not write, Attic Greek, and to be able to make himself understood in verbal Celtic, French, Flemish, Danish and Norse. Given that Norse, English and Danish had a close relationship and most people who could speak one language could make himself understood in another if using simple words, this was perhaps not quite as great a list of achievements as it may at first have appeared.
Alan had one of his guards fetch parchment, ink and quill from his room, and Osmund showed that he was capable of taking verbatim dictation at reasonable speed, despite his consumption of ale. He also showed that he was able to quickly and accurately figure sums.
“That’s only the rough draft, of course,” said Osmund referring to his transcription. “Usually I’d re-write it properly later.”
Alan had not noticed any appreciable problems with style and form and was quite happy to accept Osmund’s ‘rough draft’ as the final copy. He asked Osmund about his past.
“Well, my father was a priest. It’s not unusual for priests in England to be married, of course. He and my mother taught me my basic letters and when I was nine I was sent to the abbey school at Cambridge. I learned there under a number of teachers. You’ll be familiar with Cambridge’s reputation for scholarship? I was an oblate and then a novice. Err… I proved somewhat precocious and asked too many difficult questions and the abbot decided I should not become a monk. I was seventeen then. I was fortunate that the abbot here in Colchester, who is a friend of my father’s, offered me a position as a teacher and I’ve been here for the last three years, apart from a year when I travelled with an entertaining troupe to France, Normandy, Flanders, Denmark, Norway and Scandinavia. I sing,” he added.
Given the similarity of their backgrounds Alan felt a strong fellow-feeling towards Osmund and also felt that he was honest and to be trusted. “As I mentioned, I’m looking for a clerk to record the details of the Hundred court and my Manor court and to keep my books of account. I have a steward who I suspect of cheating me and who needs close supervision. The pay would be two shillings a week and your board in my Hall. Would you be interested in the position?” asked Alan as he ate a hunk of fresh buttered bread with Gorgonzola cheese.
Osmund nearly dropped his pitcher of ale. Two shillings a week was as much as a huscarle earned, far more than the few pence he received for teaching, which barely paid for the cost of the vermin-infested garret that he called home. Osmund stammered his thanks and acceptance. Alan tossed a leather purse on the table, landing with a heavy thud. “Usually pay is monthly in arrears, but you may have some debts you need to clear before you leave, so here is two weeks pay in advance. When can you start?”
Osmund assured Alan that he would present himself at Thorrington in four days time. Given the late hour and Osmund’s consumption of a large quantity of ale, Alan suggested that Osmund sleep by the
fire in the Commons with his own troops. Just then the serving wench bustled up to clear the table and with a direct look at Alan asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?” The lass had grown prettier with each passing pitcher of ale and Alan was tempted, but after a moment declined. After all, on the morrow he would be back at home with Edyth.
Next morning was market day. After breaking his fast with bread and cheese, Alan went to the armourer’s workshop, having one of his escort lead the two horses that were to form the payment. Alan chatted with Gimm, one of the armourer’s young apprentices, while he was being fitted into his armour and Gimm’s master was outside inspecting the horses. Apparently business was slow and the apprentices had been told that one of them was to be put off, but not which one of the three. Gimm was close to completing his apprenticeship and, thinking how convenient it would be to have an armourer in his fort, Alan made another job offer that was quickly accepted. Alan told Gimm to travel to Thorrington with Osmund and to draw up a list of the tools, equipment and supplies he’d need. Just then the Master Armourer reappeared and expressed himself happy with the horses.
The hauberk required a few minor alterations and with a wink at Gimm Alan arranged to return after mid-day to collect the armour. Then to the market, where Alan tracked down the cheese-maker that supplied ‘The Three Hounds’ and ordered two dozen rounds of various cheeses to be collected by a cart from Thorrington in a few days, with payment to be two for one weight for weight with wheat flour. Next he went to the wine merchant to buy half a dozen firkins of Bordeaux, with payment to be by sacks of flour and barrels of salted fish.
It was mid-day when Alan walked up the hill to the priory, accompanied by the warrior who had previously led the horses. Osmund had told Alan that the librarian was Brother Leanian, an elderly monk who apparently guarded the tomes in his care as closely as if they were virgins. Deliberately arriving half an hour before the service for the noon hour of Sext, which was followed by the main meal of the day, Alan had a quick look around the library before he approached its master. The librarian had been observing him since arrival, the priest noting the simple but rich clothing and air of authority of the noble. “Brother Leanian,” said Alan in Latin, “You have quite an impressive collection! Not as extensive as Rouen where I studied, or the University of Paris where I visited a few times, but nevertheless still quite good. Now tell me do you have….”
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